


Not Ready Yet

by hetellsastory



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:42:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23814802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hetellsastory/pseuds/hetellsastory
Summary: Graakan Ortratth had traveled to Kun-Lai to bear witness to the trial of Garrosh Hellscream. But his heart carries so much hate for the Orcs in general, can he stand among them seeing judicial remedies?





	Not Ready Yet

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2014, between Mists of Pandaria and Warlords of Draenor.

The air was crisp and clear, stilled with the anticipation that heralds the last moment before sunrise. The stillness was not silent, however, as flocks of birds sang as they gathered for the day and prepared to ride the winds that flowed around and through the Kun-Lai mountains. They paid no attention at all to the swordsman standing with his weapon drawn, as still as the statues at the nearby temple, as still as the thick wooden post situated between him and increasing glow to the east. Unlike the statues, he was anything but inert, focused on the horizon where the sun would make its appearance to the left of the post in just a few short breaths.

Graakan held the massive, slightly curved sword horizontally, tip aimed at that glowing place on the horizon. The sword appeared smaller in his hands than it might otherwise, as the Draenei was also massive in his own way, arms like small tree trunks and hands that could almost wrap completely around a human’s head. In this light, his bluish skin was grey, leached of color as was most of the rest of the landscape at this hour. The sword tip did not waver, as its wielder waited. Waited for another breath…

He stepped forward, leaned forward, thrust with the sword, all in one maneuver that was as powerful as one might expect but with a grace not common for such a large warrior. The sword tip halted at his full extension, precisely simultaneous with the first light of the rising sun, a perfectly executed technique called “Pierce the Star-Veil”, the first movement in a combat form rare even among the Draenei. Graakan was probably the last member of an ancient Eredun warrior society, the Sha’Ortratth — “House of Light’s Refuge”. Once, his brothers had numbered in the tens of thousands, a small and elite number among the billions on Argus. The corruption of his people had trimmed that number to hundreds. The orcs had done the rest; Graakan hadn’t met another of his House in close to half a millenium, and had little hope he ever would again.

The combat form was short, just 87 discrete movements encapsulating techniques intended for use in a crowded, fully encircling melee. His right hoof, having landed at the end of his opening thrust, did not leave the ground again and became his pivot point as the sword swept around him, cuts and parries flowing like water, each into the next. The form had a name, but the Sha’Ortratth typically used the nickname: “Dawnbreaker”, and it was traditional to perform it at sunrise. The mark of mastery of the form was to “spear” the sunrise with the opening movement, and then carve a pattern in the wooden post with the tip of the blade as the rest of the form was done. Less than a minute after he began, Graakan spun nearly full circle, his blade slashing powerfully, cutting across the carved pattern he’d just made. Masters of the form considered it the perfect combination of combat and artistry, and Graakan had seen some master’s practice posts become cherished decor in temples and homes.

He doubted there was anyone else alive who might appreciate his own practice posts. They’d probably be used for firewood. Or be left to the elements. Sheathing his sword, he stepped to the post, wiping some woodchips from the cuts he’d just made. Most days, he could simply appreciate his own artistry, and move on. Today was not one of those days, and his glowing, pale blue eyes seemed to darken as he stared at the post.

A short distance away, at the Temple of the White Tiger, a huge host had gathered to attend the trial of Garrosh Hellscream, deposed Warchief of the Horde. Without taking his eyes from the pattern in the wood before him, he listened for the sounds such a throng made, and now that his attention wasn’t fixed elsewhere, he could make out the din. Up close, he thought, it must be intolerable. But he should be there, now, bearing witness. He should go now. Right now. Pick up his things and set off. Yes, he should be on the road.

Of course he didn’t move at all. He’d come here to this plateau within sight of the Temple when it had become clear to him that he couldn’t attend the trial without his rage spilling over to threaten not just his calm demeanor, but to come dangerously close to making him do something unwise — like kill Garrosh while the orc was chained to the witness stand, hacking him to pieces in front of all assembled while the damned orc was defenseless. Graakan believed with all his soul that Garrosh should die, but he also believed in such a death being dispensed as Justice, rather than the hate-fueled butchery that he so very much wanted to unleash. And until he could master that urge within him, Graakan had resolved to stay on this plateau, training in the manner of his old House, even if it meant missing the entire trial.

Graakan turned now, looking across the shallow valley separating him from the Temple and studied the crowd he could see even from here. After a moment, he reached to one of his packs and fished out an old and well-used pair of goggles, thumbing the activation switch as he put them on. Eight years after he’d learned to craft them in Ironforge, the magnification still worked like a charm, bringing the scene across the valley into sharp focus. What he saw confirmed what he’d thought a moment ago: it was still a madhouse over there, smoke from cookfires choking the air while thousands of Horde and Alliance milled around between their tents and across the bridges to the main building.

Pulling off the goggles, he bent to return them to his bags, and knew from long experience — over 20 thousand years of experience — that he still wasn’t ready to face so many orcs. He’d try again tomorrow. He pulled a small shovel from his bags, to dig a hole for the post he’d need in the morning.

The problem wasn’t Garrosh, and it wasn’t Theramore, although that should be plenty to contend with. The problem was the orcs in general. The problem was the Path of Glory, where the bones of his brothers and sisters were ground up to pave a road to the Black Portal. The problem was Velen, who Graakan thought was an idiot. What good was a “prophet” who couldn’t tell his people to get the hells out of a place where more than 9 out of 10 would be slaughtered in the span of just a few short years, a literal eyeblink of time compared to the 200 centuries Graakan had seen?

The sun was higher now, its brightness bringing little heat at this altitude. Graakan stood with the shovel, his heart black with cold rage over injuries that stretched back centuries, over betrayals and the destruction of an entire way of life he’d really believed would never end. Only his warrior’s discipline forced the calm demeanor on his body when his spirit wanted to unleash vengeance on Garrosh and his entire species, a devastation that would be spoken of for 20,000 more years, but only in whispers, and those choked with dread.

Graakan took a deep breath, and slowly released it, shaking his head. Damn Velen and his preaching and his talk of peace! Gritting his teeth, he speared the rocky ground of Kun-Lai with the shovel, beginning the hole for the next post, and trying to let go of his hurt and his hate. The House of Light’s Refuge taught that only by being pure in the pursuit of justice and enlightenment could true mastery be achieved. Graakan and his people had lost so much, but he was damned if he was going to surrender his House’s teachings on account of any number of orcs.

The sun kept climbing over the Draenei as he labored to plant another post, the 32nd in a line of such posts that he’d decorated with a slashed pattern at dawn for over a month. Maybe tomorrow, he’d be ready. Maybe.


End file.
